


Maybe, Some Day

by missmollyetc



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Carey snuffles, nodding his head, and PK has to let go. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe, Some Day

At the hotel, Carey dumps his bag against a wall, and spreads out on the bed nearest the door, flat on his back. He wriggles his hips and sighs.

"I'll take breakfast in bed at ten, Jeeves," he says to the ceiling.

"You'll take a cruller at six and fucking like it, douche," PK says and kicks Carey's mattress as he walks by.

Carey cackles, turning his head in PK's direction. "Dude, where is my love here, huh?"

PK sits down on his own double bed, and kicks his shoes off. "The honeymoon was over the first time you farted in my clean laundry."

Carey waggles his finger in the air. "See, now you have no proof that that was me."

PK snorts, and pulls his shirt off over his head with both hands. When it lands in his lap, he sees Carey still watching him from the other bed. He's smiling a little, blurry-eyed with the need to sleep. It must be really bad tonight, usually Carey's up and out the door faster than PK can make fun of his choice of plaid.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, tossing his shirt in the direction of his own bag.

"Nothing," Carey says softly. "My mom sent me a text yesterday."

"Yeah?" 

Carey squirms up the bed until his head rests on his pillow, and PK very carefully does not watch the way his hips work against the bedspread. He swallows, licking his lips, and stands up instead. He throws his own quilt to the foot of his bed, and unzips his trousers, stepping out until he's only in his boxers. His pants are good for another couple of days.

"She said..." Carey starts, and then trails away as PK twists to look over his shoulder.

Carey clears his throat, and blinks. "She said," he begins again, "I mean..."

PK turns around fully, and rubs his throat, right where it suddenly feels tight. "Something wrong, dude?"

Carey shakes his head quickly. "No! No, it's not, I mean..." He rubs his hands over his face, and shakes his head again. "Fuck it, I don't know what I mean. I'm so fucking tired, man. I'm just...I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? I'll make more sense then."

He turns over onto his stomach, smashes his head against the pillow, and then turns back over, still holding the pillow. His shirt is twisted up over his flat stomach, the little trail of hair down past his waistband shivers when he breathes. PK swallows. Yeah, tomorrow, right. 

"You aren't gonna change?" he asks, clearing his throat.

Carey's arms flex over the pillow. "Npmf," he says.

"Right," PK says, and rubs his throat again. 

The air feels tight around him, dry against his skin. He licks his lips, bites a stray piece of dead skin free, and spits it out. Carey's stomach rises and falls with his own breath. PK wants to lay his hand there, palm cupped on Carey's belly and follow that trail of hair downward, but he'd jumped Johnny that first night of Juniors and look how that'd turned out. Never let it be said that PK Subban can't learn from his mistakes. Well, not mistakes, just...things. Things that happen, and then that end.

PK swallows, and takes a deep breath. He wants to know what would happen if he offered to help Carey out of his clothes. If he slipped his hands up Carey's shirt. If he just reached out and unbuttoned Carey's trousers. Carey sounds tired though, like, almost all the way gone from the way his breath is slowing down. He doesn't need any help getting to sleep, even though he might totally fall for that one.

PK sits down on his own bed. He wants to jerk off. He's done it before in their room, no big deal. Lots of roomies did, you just got on the bed and stared at the walls or took extra fucking long showers and you made jokes about it. He's heard Carey come more times than he can count. Carey might have a problem with him rubbing one out while staring at his stomach, though. That might be a thing.

Carey still has his pillow trapped over his face. How is he breathing?

He's standing before he knows it, and one hand is already tugging at the corner of Carey's pillow before PK's brain can tell his body to knock it the hell off. Carey grunts at him, and tugs his pillow out of PK's grip.

"Gotta breathe, man," PK says.

Carey's arms tighten around his pillow, shoulders hunching, but he flops over onto his stomach. PK snorts. Great, now he has an unlimited view of Carey's ass in track pants. His shirt has twisted all the way up to the middle of his back, and the dip of Carey's spine is...well, it's something. Jesus Christ.

"Happy?" Carey mutters.

PK jerks his eyes away from the small of Carey's back, and freezes. "Sorry? What?"

Carey's head is twisted towards him. His hair is plastered to his forehead in sweaty black curls. His eyes are shut, and PK takes a relieved breath.

"I _said_ ," Carey yawns, "Are you happy now?"

"That's not what you said," PK says automatically.

"Fuck _off_ ," Carey says, and kicks at the mattress. PK snorts again. "You're waking me up," Carey says.

PK backs up a step. "Just...I don't know, just get under your covers, eh?"

He looks up in time to see Carey's right eye pop open. "The hell, dude?"

PK glances away, but that just brings his eyes into full body contact with the sight of Carey, legs spread and back ever so slightly arched. The only bit of skin PK can see is the top of Carey's arse to the middle of his back, but it's enough; it's more than enough.

"Fucking..." 

He can hear Carey grumbling, see the ways he's starting to twitch like he knows PK's taking all kinds of mental pictures, like he's waking up, and shit. Fucking hell.

PK jumps into his bed backwards, and squirms under his blanket. He twists the stupid light switch-knob-thing and the room is dark. Nothing to see here, folks.

"Nothing!" he says quickly, and then clears his throat until he can sound like a man, and not a twelve year old girl. "I'll see you, man, okay? At breakfast and shit. Night!"

There's a short, entirely awkward silence, and PK shuts his eyes as he climbs under his own covers, listening to Carey grumbling.

***

 

Breakfast sucks. Breakfast is every single piece of fried deliciousness that PK is no longer allowed to have, eggs and toast, a large bowl of warm cantaloupe and grapes, and fucking Hal bogarting all the yogurt. PK doesn't even like yogurt, and it still pisses him the fuck off. In retaliation, he takes the entire pitcher of OJ off the buffet table, and brings it to his own table. Where he eats his fucking cantaloupe, and drinks straight out of the pitcher.

Carey finds him just as he worked himself up to try eating the grapes and not just poke them with his fork. He sits down across from him, with a plate full of eggs and fruit and a cup of coffee. He slides an empty glass over to PK’s side of the table, and glares until PK pours him a cup of oj.

PK feels Carey's shoe nudge his ankle. "When I woke up this morning you'd already gone," he says.

PK shrugs, and pops a grape into his mouth. It mushes between his teeth, and he grimaces. "Sorry, princess," he says. "I thought you needed the beauty sleep."

Or, to not have PK wake him up with a 'would you be interested in seeing me socially' blowjob, but whatever. Fuck the world.

"How come you get to have eggs, and I don't?" PK asks, stabbing his fork at Carey's plate.

"I don't know," Carey says, blinking at him. "Your eggs are gonna get cold."

"Fuck the eggs." PK eats another grape. This one has the proper snap to the skin, but it's still too warm. 

"I don't think that's legal," Carey says.

PK looks up from his ever-more disgusting plate, and catches Carey's eye. All the hair on the right side of his head is standing up in a wave, and he's squinting at him. Fuck, he's still wearing last night's clothes. PK usually gets him up and moving enough to make sense of the world before they go down to breakfast together.

PK grabs Carey's coffee mug, and takes a sip, wincing at the sugary, oily burn of it down his throat. He smacks his lips together, scrunching his nose, and sets down the mug.

"You need to get dressed," he says. "We roll in, like, twenty."

Carey waves his left hand in the air, and then drops it down to pick up his coffee. "Pfft."

PK rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

He jams three grapes onto his fork, and slides them off onto Carey's plate. Carey drinks his coffee, and blinks at him. He looks out at the mostly empty dining area, and then leans over the table.

"Dude, I have to...um, so my mom?" he stops talking in favor of chewing his bottom lip.

PK is a rock, he is Iron Man, and he is not interested in watching that shit. He coughs, and steals some of Carey's eggs. It only works in the mornings.

"Yes," he says. "You, Carey Price, have a mother."

Carey kicks his ankle, and shakes out of his daze. "Knock it off, I'm...look my mom, she told me last night that I...I mean, I have this cousin? Marley." 

Carey leans forward, lowering his voice, and PK copies him. "And, um," Carey coughs, "he came out. To my mom. Last night."

PK blinks. He puts his fork down. Carey won't look him in the eyes. He pushes at PK's half-empty pitcher instead.

"Um," PK says.

"And I was wondering how you felt about that," Carey says, all in a rush. He coughs, and gulps down his coffee, wincing.

"I feel...okay?" PK tries, and coughs through the instinctive tightness at his throat. He's not in the business of repressing shit, he's just...not out. And he can't be out. If the fans hate him for being happy, they'll fucking kill him for liking the whole rainbow spectrum. He hates this shit. 

Carey squirms in his seat, and scrapes his nails back and forth over the side of his head. His mug is shaking in his hands. Man, he must really love that cousin.

"I'm okay with it," PK says again, more loudly, and if someone looks up, then fuck them. "No problems, here."

Carey's shoulders hunch up a little, and then fall back. He glances up from his coffee, and suddenly PK wants to do something stupid, like touch his face.

"Okay?" Carey asks.

"Sure," PK says. "Only punks and losers give a shit about that. It's just what people are into."

Carey sits back in his chair, and a grin blooms across his face. "Right," he says. "No problems."

He nods to himself, still grinning, and his hair is still standing up on his head. PK takes the opportunity to steal more eggs. They're crappy, but at least they're supposed to be hot. He licks his fork clean.

"So, is your cousin coming to a game?" he asks. 

Carey jerks slightly. "Huh?" he asks.

"Your cousin," PK says. "Is he coming out to a game? Is that why you're all..." He waves his fork in a circle. 

"Oh yeah," Carey says, blinking rapidly. "Right, Marley."

He sits forward, putting both elbows on the table. "No," he says, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "He's got school right now, I think. I just...it was a thing my mom thought I should bring up."

PK nods, and steals Carey's coffee mug right out of his hand. Their fingers brush, and PK shivers. 

"Okay," PK says. "You should get changed, though. We're gonna leave soon."

***

A locker room's no place for anything, and so PK saves his sappy crap for when he's on the bus. The guys can totally pretend that he's asleep, and not watching Carey nap with half his dumbass face pressed to the window of the bus. He wants to put his thumb to that little worry wrinkle between Carey's eyebrows and press it away. PK makes stupid plans. He knows this about himself--or it's more like, he knows that he doesn't plan for shit, and then just says he does and it's dumb, but at least then people think it was supposed to be. Whatever, things happen.

He just kind of wishes they'd stop happening to Carey. Like, shit happens to him in Montreal all the freakin' time and it's--nothing's ever good enough here. Carey's never good enough, which is just such bullshit. Carey's freaking awesome, Carey's...

PK pushes back against his seat a little, playing like he's a restless sleeper, or some shit, and lets his hand fall between their seats. His knuckles press into the warmth of Carey's thigh, right at the seam of his trousers.

There's nothing--they don't do anything, PK's not stupid, he knows when Carey's joking around--but sometimes he gets these...ideas. They're not plans; PK doesn't make plans.

But he has a driver's license, though, and he has a car, and sometimes he has this idea. It's Saturday, or Sunday, or just off-season, and he shows up to Carey's place. He stands up at the door, and jerks his thumb towards his car, and Carey just gets in. He gets the radio, and PK gets the wheel and...that's it, really. They just drive; see how far they can get. Maybe they see how far they want to go; Carey gets to have his say, too.

Anyway, PK doesn't make great plans. He closes his hand into a fist, presses his knuckles against Carey's thigh. It's just an idea.

Carey sleeps all the way to the next hotel, and only wakes up far enough to shuffle up to their room, and pass out on the bed nearest the door. His lower legs are off the mattress. The toes of his sneakers are planted on the floor.

PK snorts, and closes the door behind them. He kicks the bag Carey dropped against the wall, and throws his own luggage after it. It lands with a thunk, and he winces, but Carey doesn't seem to notice. 

"Dude," PK says, yawning. "Dude, you missed the bed."

Carey twitches, and a muffled noise drifts up from the bedspread. He's starting to slide towards the edge of the mattress. PK steps into the room, rubbing at his collar. Fucking Grabner had caught him a good one right where the edge of his padding met his chest. He'll be feeling it big-time tomorrow.

Jesus, how is it that he seems to end every fucking day staring at Casey Price's ass in track pants?

"Carey," PK says again.

Again, Carey twitches. His hips slide against the bed, and...God. PK is tired. He's really fucking tired, and he's always a little loopy once there's no more adrenaline in his post-game system, and so that's what he's blaming this one on. He moves closer to Carey's bed, bends down, and wraps his hands around both of Carey's hips.

PK closes his eyes. Carey's skin is warm through his clothes. PK takes a moment, because he is not that guy. He's a lot of things, but he isn't that much of a dick, and then he pulls up, jostling Carey beneath him.

Carey makes a little noise, higher-pitched on the end note. His arms stretch out in double arcs along the bed, fingers twisting into the quilt.

"Come..." PK clears his throat, and doesn't grip Carey any harder than he has to to keep him from sliding to the floor. "Come on, dude. Just get up onto the bed."

Carey snuffles, nodding his head, and PK has to let go. He has to back away with his hands in the air, and bite his fucking tongue, because Carey is pulling himself up across the bed, rolling his shoulders and bucking his hips for leverage and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph PK's life is one big joke at this point. Any moment now fucking Gionta is going to come skipping his way out of the bathroom with a camera crew or some shit like that all 'This Week's Get to Know Your Canadiens: Who's Most Likely to Catch a Predator?'

Son of a bitch. Carey's older than him, and PK still kind of feels dirty. Carey's practically fucking comatose. As he watches, Carey flops down, one hand landing flat on the nightstand between the beds, and sighs. He melts against his bed, muscles liquefying. PK crosses his arms over his chest.

He just. Just... There's no fucking Gionta here. There's no camera crew, or reporter, or even an ice bunny. It's just him and Carey, and Carey's asleep and cool with gay dudes on account of his cousin. Just this once.

He walks over to Carey, toeing off his shoes as he goes, and stands between their beds. The thick, dark hair on the back of Carey's head is soft against his lips when he bends down. He keeps his mouth closed, presses once, and then pulls back just to Carey's ear. He smells like sweat, and a little like shaving cream, and PK doesn't care.

"Good night," he says, and goes to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be part of a larger story that, unfortunately, fizzled. I think it still has an internal closure, and so I decided to post it up here as my own form of WIP Amnesty. I might expand this later, probably in a different story.


End file.
